And each time you hang up,

my heart,

it breaks just a little bit;

as your calloused, hardened finger –

hardened by work, and hardened by play,

by the way it grips the paintbrush, by the way it guides the ball coming at it with agility and poise –

meets the red on the screen,

methinks,

that deserves my touch, my tender play,

with my hands, that guide it places,

with my fingers;

and you might not be able to help it –

what you had set out to do;

so can’t I.